


How Do You Feel About an Audrey Hepburn? (Ala Roman Holiday)

by compo67



Series: Palo Alto Verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Always Female Sam Winchester, Childhood Memories, Commitment, Developing Relationship, F/M, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Female Sam Winchester, Flashbacks, Friendship, Het, POV Female Character, POV Sam Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Doubt, Stanford Student Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23940451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Finished with the semester, Sam attempts to rest and relax. Memories bombard her best efforts, but she finds hope and help along the way.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: Palo Alto Verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/317222
Comments: 3
Kudos: 53





	How Do You Feel About an Audrey Hepburn? (Ala Roman Holiday)

At the end of the semester, after her final exam, the last paper, and the last day of her internship--Sam commits herself to the living room couch for the foreseeable future.

The last exam for International Relations could be described as a gallery of horrors. Night after night she studied for that sonofabitch Professor Carter. He must have worked with a demon to produce such painful questions. 

But it’s over now. It’s done. She never has to take that course again. 

Fleeing from campus, she raced home and arrived in record time. 

She sheds her previous outfit of jeans and a Stanford t-shirt and immediately transforms into sweatpants and her oversized Metallica shirt. There will be no makeup, no dresses, no heels, and for the love of everything holy, no bras. 

She intends to bathe everyday, but in the fashion of empresses and dowagers--in a bath filled with warm water and bubbles. Her bath might be a tad too small, and it’s been a minute since she’s had the time to clean it, but it’s better than the alternative of a wading pool. 

This is going to be the best summer yet.

It only has to start.

At two in the afternoon, Sam has plenty of time to lay around and decompress with an episode of Ancient Aliens in the background. She could meditate. Do yoga. Pilates. Nap. Or order two extra large pizzas from the pizza joint around the block. And since she’s in a good mood, she  _ could  _ add mozzarella sticks and wings. Why not? Life is short, and fried cheese is a blessing from ancient aliens that once visited earth. Or something. 

The opportunities are endless. She only needs to decide on what to actually do.

Stretched out on the couch, Sam runs a hand through her hair. 

Okay. Three. Two. One. Rest!

…

Nothing happens.

She mutes the TV and slowly sits up, then looks around the apartment. There’s her yoga mat. Her weights next to Dean’s weights, which continue their important job of holding down the apartment floor. A watercolor painting she abandoned two months ago. A pile of books from a book club she joined last year and keeps promising she’ll catch up on. 

There’s no shortage of shit to do. Any one of these things could provide her with some entertainment. She has nowhere to be. 

So what gives? 

Is she restless? Bored? But it’s only been a few hours since she handed Carter his ass on paper. 

Of all things to pick up, she picks up her phone. Absentmindedly scrolling through the same few apps, she wills herself to enter a more relaxed state of mind. She pops open the picture gallery, which prompts an instant smile. 

On Saturday, Dean invited her out on a date. 

An actual date. They haven’t been on a date since… she couldn’t remember when. He dressed up in a plaid, green button down and dark wash jeans. On her arm as they walked through downtown Palo Alto, he absolutely glowed--healthy, happy, relaxed. 

He left the whole day up to Sam. Without a single complaint, he accompanied her to two bookstores and the newest Thai-French bistro on El Camino Real. As a thanks, she surprised him with tickets to the Palo Alto History Museum’s visiting exhibit: Classic Cars from Classic TV & Film. She swipes through at least ten pictures of him posing with the 1966 Batmobile and at least twenty with The Tumbler from the Nolan movies.

Their last stop of the day had been the aquarium. Sam bought season passes to all the local museums in her freshman year--something she had always wanted to do since the age of nine. Season passes signifies permanent residency in a community and a dedication to their educational institutions. She may have been a slightly strange kid, but Stanford Sam completed the wish. At least once a week throughout the semester and more during breaks, she visits the aquarium for its beautiful serenity. She had yet to bring Dean. 

Underneath the starlight glow of the tanks, he wrapped an arm around her waist. 

She looked up at him, he looked down at her, his green eyes sincere and playful. He dipped in close and murmured, “Hey, Jude.” 

With a sigh, Sam smiles into a pillow. 

Dean held her hand all day. 

Eyes squeezed shut, she hopes this lasts. She starts to unwind and absorbs the comforting sounds of the ordinary, familiar street outside

Outside, Ubers and taxis honk at each other. The elote man rolls past. Dogs bark. Sirens in the distance race towards their destinations. Mrs. Parrillo shouts at her son Joe Jr. because he couldn’t get off his ass to take out the trash this morning. 

Returning to her phone, a new email pops up during her infinite scrolling--a reminder that she gets twenty percent off her next visit at DaVita’s Spa & Retreat. She could use some pampering. The past few months have flown by in a flurry of ending the semester and adjusting to her new life, the one that now includes Dean. 

He’s working a steady job now. A steady job means stability. Stability means security. 

Hopefully.

Back to spa time. She’s earned it, dammit.

On her way to book an appointment online, she remembers the one tab she opened weeks ago on a whim--an Etsy shop that specializes in the creation of erotic aprons. 

Would it be anti-feminist to wear said apron? Or pro-feminist? Could she spin it as reclaiming her sexuality? Or would said purchase of a garment historically and culturally used to oppress femininity fall into the shady borders of faux feminism? 

Good lord. She’s supposed to be on  _ vacation _ . 

Sam sits up, taps her phone to her chin, and decides that she will actively subvert all oppressive mindsets and treat herself to some spa time while Dean finishes his shift at his mysterious new job. 

Luck is on her side--DaVita’s can see her in half an hour.

After a quick snack, she switches a few items from her purse to a cherry red clutch. In line with her temporary liberation from responsibilities, she decides to go out in her current outfit, adding only a pair of sandals. She continues to avoid a bra at all costs. 

Grabbing her keys, she leaves, confidence in her steps. 

A nugget of guilt tugs at her as she orders an Uber Black to whisk her off to relaxation paradise.

John Winchester never believed in spa days or mani-pedis or any situation where he could possibly be groomed by a person without any knowledge of military survivalist tactics. Salons were frivolous. Salons were for spoiled civilians who wouldn’t know how to defend themselves against jack shit. Salons were for other people--not for them.

It turns out that a lot of things ended up being for other people and not for them. 

The first time she ever shoplifted was at a Goodwill somewhere in Oklahoma at the age of ten. Sam stuffed Minnie Mouse underwear and a package of press-on nails into the kangaroo pocket of Dean’s giant TMNT hoodie. She paraded through the motel room that night, glad to have underwear that wasn’t Dean’s gross hand me down boxers and impressive nails. 

It was a triumph and a success--until John barged in. 

With his usual tact and understanding, he shoved a grimy t-shirt and shorts on her, forced her to take off the nails, and stood over her while she cleaned the bathroom floor with a toothbrush. 

The arrival of her Uber snaps her out of the past. 

What does cleaning a bathroom floor with a toothbrush teach children anyway? It didn’t teach her never to shoplift again. If anything, it taught her how not to get caught. 

Palo Alto shops and businesses pass by in a blur. Her Uber driver puts on a generic lo-fi playlist and continues their conversation with someone on their bluetooth headset. 

When she turned thirteen, Dean managed to convince John that women’s underwear and nail polish were not invitations for monsters to eat young women. John relented on the underwear part, not without a reminder that in a survival situation, a pair of boxers would protect her from the elements more than a G-string ever could. 

Because he seriously thought she’d go from boxer briefs to G-strings. 

John didn’t fear spirits, wendigos, vampires, werewolves, ghouls, other hunters, or civvies. He only ever seemed to fear his baby girl growing up.

Sam exits the Uber upon arrival and tips on the app before heading in. 

Inside the luxuriously decorated spa, Sam checks with the receptionist behind a sleek marble desk and takes a seat in the lobby. Someone offers her Evian, which she accepts, like the high-class, Metallica-shirt-wearing lady she freaking is. 

Memories continue to take hold of her mind, despite all resistance. 

She tries to picture what the outcome would have been if she had ever thought to ask John out on a mani-pedi daddy/daughter date. Her mind comes up with something painfully true and yet hilariously over the top at the same time, like a sitcom with John as the Tim Allen patriarch, but fails. 

Every reaction she imagines devolves into his favorite facial expressions: serious and disapproving. 

Does a positive or lighthearted memory of just the two of them exist at all? 

Maybe that one time with the ghoul in Tulsa? No, he yelled at her afterwards for getting underfoot. That wendigo on the Minnesota-Canadian border? Eh, he didn’t yell, but he did go out of his way to praise Dean’s physical capabilities and ignore Sam’s research contributions. 

Shit, what a depressing start to summer vacation. 

No wonder she ended up starting… something with her own brother. Where else was she supposed to find love and acceptance in the world? From random diner waitresses? 

A woman who could be Nicole Kidman’s twin asks Sam to follow her back to the spa. 

Glossy marble columns lead them to a series of private changing rooms. 

Sam quickly changes out of her clothes and into a silk robe. Over the past three weeks, her head has been filled with nothing but obscure legal terms, needlessly complicated political theories, and arguments to defend fictional cases. 

Stanford is a harsh mistress. No one has to ask Sam twice if she’d like a thirty minute mud bath. 

Nicole Kidman leads her to a different room, one with a beautiful tub, a vase of lillies, and meditation music playing softly in the background through unseen speakers. Sam learns how to fill the tub with clay and water in the correct ratios. 

Alone, Sam selects a lavender clay option. She hangs up the robe and climbs in, emitting a sigh once she submerges. 

However. 

The second she closes her eyes, the image of her father’s somber stare reappears. She pinches the bridge of her nose and wills him away. He didn’t hate her. She doesn’t hate him. She may not  _ like _ him, and he may not entirely like her. But he let her join that soccer league in Michigan. He never made it to a game, but she got to play in a few of them and a tournament before being spirited away.

All John had were two kids and a desire for revenge. He had no rulebook. No manual. No contingency plans. Just a four year old, a baby, and a lifelong ghost.

Besides, if he hated her, he would have left her with distant relatives as a baby. 

John just never knew how to relate to her or other women that weren’t Mary. That remains accurate. He can no more relate to his twenty something daughter than a demon from hell. In John’s world, women are either sinners or saints. Nothing in between. 

That black and white thinking is just his way. 

In her sophomore year of high school, Sam dyed her hair blonde in an effort to piss him off and hit him where it hurt by reminding him of Mary. 

Only, it didn’t work out that way. 

Dean and John very clearly saw the new color of her hair. They collectively chose not to say a single word about it. Dean even made up excuses for a week to avoid having sex with her. 

The amount of Not-Mary she is and will always be continues to haunt her in the strangest ways. If she can’t escape John’s gaze, she definitely can’t escape the leftovers of a mother she never knew.

She made meatloaf and pie a few weeks ago for Dean out of affection, knowing his affinity for diner meals. The thought had been to cook something familiar and wholesome. The damn meatloaf took two tries to get right, but it did bear some resemblance to the Pinterest picture that inspired it. 

Over dinner, Dean picked at the meatloaf, ate a sliver of pie, and ended up eating cereal a few hours later. He can eat meatloaf and pie without a problem at the mom and pop restaurant down the block, but the instant she makes it, Mary’s shadow looms over the meal.

Covered in mud from her shoulders down, Sam wills herself to conjure up at least one happy childhood memory of the only parent she did know.

If she can remember public safety statutes and judicial interpretation, she can dig up a happy memory, dammit. 

There was that one time John took them to see a movie at a Mississippi drive-in. 

Of course, the drive-in had been the scene of a quick salt and burn. The owner made the call, John answered, and he dragged his children from Nebraska to Mississippi to take care of it. He worked his magic and cleared it out in under ninety minutes. The owner insisted that they stay for the first movie of the evening and plied John with hotdogs, nachos, and popcorn. Sam begged him to consider--pretty pretty please! Dean suggested it might be nice to watch something on an actual movie screen for once, not just a motel TV. 

John sighed and promised they’d get back to work early the next morning--but he allowed it. Sam and Dean got to experience  _ Space Balls _ on a giant screen, the Impala parked front row center. John sat in the front seat and watched along with them. 

He even joined Sam and Dean in singing “Hello, My Baby” with the dancing alien at the end. 

If only they had watched more Mel Brooks movies together. 

At the end of the mud bath, Nicole Kidman’s Stepford Wives robot/clone/double shows Sam to a different shower, this one large enough to qualify as an apartment in Palo Alto. It comes complete with a large screen television and kick ass speakers. 

Sam looks for  _ Space Balls _ as an option, but ends up on an episode of  _ I Love Lucy _ while she washes up. Seeing Lucy’s apron on screen prompts her to decide that yes, yes she will buy that erotic apron on Etsy, because it’s pretty and it’ll make her chest look great. 

Another attendant--who also bears some resemblance to Nicole Kidman, but with darker hair--escorts Sam to the salon area. 

Hands on his hips, her stylist greets her with fabulous flair. 

“I knew it,” he chirps, smiling wide. “I  _ knew _ Sam Winchester would show up in my chair today, I freaking  _ knew _ it.”

Sam laughs and slides into the plush chair. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Abandon My Cohort to Follow My Dreams.” 

“At your service,” Juan Carlos replies, with a bow. He takes her right hand and kisses it. “Am I psychic or am I psychic?” 

“I think you read the list of appointments, doll.” 

He feigns a face palm. “Oh, you’re right! Damn! My ability to read gets in the way of my supernatural abilities once again!”

“Ain’t that just the way,” she sighs and grins. “How are you? You look marvelous.” 

Juan Carlos playfully shakes his shoulders and smiles. He’s a picture of health and happiness--handsome in a Ricky Martin meets Desi Arnaz way. That’s exactly how he described himself to Sam during their first class together and she does not disagree.

“Oh that word, thank you for not saying ‘great.’ Everyone says that they’re ‘great’ and you know they never mean it. But  _ marvelous _ works.” He starts combing her damp hair. “Another day, another Volvo driving soccer mom who thinks she can get away with tipping five percent.”

“The bastards. I’ll tip at least six.”

“Honey, you’re gonna be making Stanford lawyer money, I expect at least seven.”

“I’m not a lawyer  _ yet _ . Is everything with Hank wonderful at least?” 

“Oh, Hank. Let me just say--so much for the afterglow.” 

“That good, huh? Um. I don’t know if I can remember other Everclear songs.”

“That’s okay, just listen to the AM Radio while I give you a Rachel cut.”

Fear grips Sam. “So you  _ do _ have an evil side. How devastating.”

Scissors in hand, Juan Carlos cackles. “Allow me to repeat my motto: if you can’t say anything nice, say something clever but devastating. Okay, tell me for real for real what we’re going for today. You’re my last client, so I have time for the works.”

Sam makes a face at herself in the mirror, scrunching her nose. The mud bath and cucumbers over her eyes helped brush off the fatigue from finals from her skin. She looks more like a person and less like a reading/studying/exam taking robot. 

Over the past three years, the shape of her face changed a smidge. She filled out. However, even though she looks at herself in the mirror every day, her reflection will sometimes, like now, trouble her. It screams civilian.

“Hmm. I was gonna ask for a basic cut.”

“Basic?” Juan Carlos presses a hand to his chest. “You have the wrong chair.”

She looks over her shoulder to make direct eye contact with him and smile. “Have I told you how much I miss you in class?”

“I can sense it. Part of my psychic abilities.” He runs a hand through his own perfectly styled hair. “But you know, I had to go and follow my dreams and shit.” 

“I’m all about following dreams and shit,” Sam quips and sits straight in the chair. “What if we did highlights?”

Sharp, indigo eyes consider the idea. “Hmm. Yes, I can see that.”

“Just don’t make me look like a Karen.”

“Ooh, you’d have to make me really mad for a Karen cut. You’ll be asking to speak to  _ all _ the managers.”

“If I make you sad, would you give me a Madonna?” 

“Let’s not go into Madonna territory. How do you feel about an Audrey Hepburn?”

“Ala Roman Holiday or Funny Face?”

“Roman Holiday, of course.”

“Do it, and I’ll dream about Gregory Peck in the meantime.” 

“No,” he snorts, “you’ll gossip with me in the meantime.” 

Gossip flourishes to the sound of Juan Carlos’ capable scissors. He trims away the childhood memories she dragged in with her and replaces them with memories of her first year as a Stanford pre-law student. They met in Speech 101, where they were partnered together to put together a speech arguing the merits of animal testing in the cosmetics industry. 

In the end, they created a presentation filled with pictures of chickens and roosters in makeup, of which there were plenty to choose from thanks to the Internet. 

Sam absolutely signed up to go to Stanford for the privilege of giving a speech titled, “Makeup on My Cock: The Glamorous Benefits of Cosmetic Animal Testing.” 

The journey from shoulder length hair to Roman Holiday hair turns out to be a smooth one. 

Juan Carlos carefully snips her bangs. “So, you gonna tell me about your new boyfriend? I heard he walks you to class sometimes. Very classy.” 

As per usual, the mention of Dean walking her to class as some act of chivalry prompts an eye roll. “He doesn’t walk me to class because he’s a gentleman. He’s just paranoid.”

“Hey.” He points the scissors at her reflection in the mirror. “Paranoid walking you to class is better than not giving a shit. I wish more men gave a shit. You know. Instead of just shitting.”

“I guess, but I don’t wanna inflate his ego.”

“Inflate other parts of his body. I heard he’s hot.”

“Excuse me,” Sam laughs. “Where are you getting your information?” 

“A little bird,” he sings and snips. “A little bird named Jessica.”

Cue another eye roll, this one into the next dimension. “Yeah, that explains shit. I can’t believe she described him as hot. This from the woman who claims all men look alike to her. His name is Dean and the highest compliment I can say about his face without inflating his ego is that he isn’t ugly.” 

“Damn sister, that’s some snap.”

Sam avoids eye contact in the mirror, preferring to stare at her yet to be manicured hands. 

In a low rumble, she adds, “I don’t mean it that way. I just rib him a lot. It’s kind of how we roll. He  _ is  _ incredibly good looking. I know that. I have to fight off people with a stick everywhere we go because… the eyes, the hair, the lips, the shoulders…”

“That magnificent bastard,” Juan Carlos chimes in. “No, I get you. People who look like that don’t need extra praise, dammit. They gotta save some of it for the truly needy. Like yours truly.”

“You don’t get enough praise from Hank?” 

“Hank?” It’s Juan Carlos’ turn to roll his eyes into the next dimension. “He’d have to not be at the gym to do that. Never date a gym bunny. Sure, he can bench press two hundred and fifty pounds and fuck me like a Tonka Truck, but deep, meaningful conversations are not his forte.” 

“All I heard was Tonka Truck. What?”

“That’s all you needed to hear. Maybe one day he’ll be capable of doing more than grunting or buying keto diet books, but that is yet to be determined.” Juan Carlos lets out a dramatic sigh. “We’ve been together for four months, which in gay time is four years, and I have no idea where we’re going.” 

Sam and Dean don’t celebrate anniversaries. 

First, it would be difficult to calculate the time. Would they start from the beginning? What would they consider the beginning? Their first kiss? Their first “date,” where they actively pretended not to be related in public? Their first time having sex together? 

Or the first time they had sex once he decided to drop in on her life in Palo Alto? Or the first time they had sex after he decided to stay? 

Second, anniversaries don’t seem to fit in with the picture of an incestuous relationship. She knows what they are to other people. She knows the terms psychologists and clinicians would call their relationship. And as much as she likes Juan Carlos, no one but an actual Winchester will ever be privy to the nature of Sam and Dean’s relationship. No one celebrates something like that. 

Sam closes her eyes and there he is again: John Fucking Winchester and his stern ass face. 

“Keep dishing,” Juan Carlos prompts, giving her a nudge. “I’m cutting at a snail’s pace because I’m hoping you’re gonna tell me Mr. Dean is hung and knows how to use it.” 

With a snort, Sam opens her eyes. “Wow. What a way to put it.”

“If you don’t spend every morning wiggling on his face, then what’s the point?” 

“True.” Sam tries and fantastically fails at hiding a smile. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever actually answered this inquiry.” 

Juan Carlos scoffs and clucks. “I swear, some of y’all settle for way less than what you deserve in terms of rocking your world. Now, pony up. We talking six?” 

Sam tries not to shake her head, doing her best to avoid a haircut-related tragedy. “Nope.”

“Seven?!” 

“Nope.” 

“Sam. Samantha Fucking Winchester.” Juan Carlos kneels before her chair. “Look me dead in the eyes--into my optic spheres, into the windows of my soul, and tell me the truth.”

Sam bites her bottom lip, remembering this morning’s activities before she left for finals and Dean left for work. They had the kind of morning where they worked out their frustrations with the world in the form of deviant, scandalous sexual acts. She woke him up with a blow job, and he returned the favor by making her come three times in a row. 

If she could communicate praise without adding to Dean’s already sizable ego, she’d tell him he’s the only person who’s ever made her do earth shattering multiples. Each orgasm is as good as the last. 

Thinking about his lips sealed tightly around her nipple, his hand cupping the breast, and his long eyelashes fluttering against his cheek--Sam’s muscles tense. 

She decides against too much kiss and tell. Sitting up straight, shoulders back, she shakes her head. “I can’t, JC. I just have to let you use your imagination. And also assume that you know what number comes after seven.” 

“Eight,” Juan Carlos quips, standing and swapping out his scissors. “And you.”

“Touche,” she concedes with a laugh. 

“His girth aside,” Juan Carlos prompts, “he better be treating you right.” 

Tiny pieces of Sam’s hair fall as Juan Carlos begins fine tuning her bangs. 

Sam dated other people throughout high school. She had to find out if whatever she had with Dean was just a fluke or a mistake. What if they were confused? What if the thing between them was something temporary or caused by trauma bonding? She had to know. 

On every date she went on after school, Dean issued the same statement: “They better treat you right.”

In the end, the universe decided it would rather have Sam and Dean break multiple rules, break each other’s hearts, and break their father’s orders. 

“We’re like magnets,” Sam murmurs in a heavier tone. Half truths roll off her tongue like well-rehearsed lines. “We’ve been on and off since we were in high school. He tracked me down eight months ago.” 

Juan Carlos shakes his head. “You’re giving me cavities. You have heart eyes and everything. Quite frankly, it’s sickening for the rest of us teetering on the edge of love and eternal singledom.”

“Yeah, okay,” she snips. “You know, I wasn’t sure if I could trust him when he came back.”

“Good. Never start with trust.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you start with intentions,” he says, placing finishing touches to her bangs. “Then you see if they follow through. And then you decide if you can trust them.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a process. I know you wouldn’t share your bed with anyone on a regular basis if you couldn’t trust them.”

“Mm, yeah. I guess I just… don’t wanna be on again off again. I told him--if he wants this, he has to be in it for the long game.” 

Before they left the apartment this morning, Dean made Sam an iced coffee smoothie. She asked him when his shift would be over. He dodged the question. 

Not knowing what Dean’s job exactly entails gets frustrating. She’s tried guessing, but her brother remains the same lockbox of secrets their father raised them to be. 

Dean’s schedule seems to revolve around regular business hours, mostly nine to five, with a few one to nine shifts tossed in. One night last week, as they curled up on the couch to watch The Munsters, she rattled off a list of professions from farmer to astronaut to a blue steel, male modeling sonofabitch. 

Over and over again, he stuck with his tried and true reply: “I’m not telling until I know it’s gonna stick.”

She knows she has to respect his privacy. Difficult as it is. They don’t do well with secrets between themselves. Secrets do not a slightly codependent, complicated relationship make. However, he deserves his privacy as much as she deserves her own.

Sam explains to Juan Carlos that Dean doesn’t always leave because he wants to leave. Sometimes he allows outside forces to pressure him into leaving. An eight month stretch is probably the longest they’ve been together since they started. 

It was a miracle John watched the entirety of  _ Space Balls _ with them that one night at the drive-in. He didn’t take a call, go off somewhere to brood, or issue a grave warning and disappear. 

If John could stay for one whole movie, maybe Dean can stay with her for an entire year.

“I think the world of him,” she admits. “Eight months is pretty good, right?”

Juan Carlos’ eyes soften. He gives her shoulder a squeeze. “Eight months is damn good, honey. At least, that’s what I hear from those of the heterosexual persuasion.”

“What’s the exact ratio between straight time and gay time?” 

“It’s a secret. Only RuPaul and Ellen know the answer.” 

Regrettably, her time with Juan Carlos comes to an end. 

The reflection in the mirror appears lighter and happier, much like the source of inspiration did in the movie. Sam doesn’t look a thing like Audrey Hepburn, but Audrey was onto something with this style. Tentatively, Sam touches the shortened, wavy ends. Maybe she’ll buy a silk scarf and a new dress in honor of Audrey.

“It’s beautiful,” she says, meeting Juan Carlos’ eyes. “You’re the only one I could have trusted with it.” 

Juan Carlos returns her smile and kisses her hand again. “Any time, Sunflowers.”

“Look. Don’t Sparkle and Fade, okay? Text. Call. Telegraph.” She stands, stretches, and gives him a rib crushing hug. “Thank you so much for listening, too. I miss you, but I’m so glad you’re doing this.”

He escorts her to the mani-pedi area and pinky promises to keep in touch. 

Ninety minutes later, with the color Pompeii Purple on her hands and feet, Sam walks home. She passes a large storefront and pauses to get a good look at herself. Yes. This is a  _ look _ . She ties her Metallica shirt into a knot in the front and proceeds walking the last five blocks. 

Maybe there aren’t many happy childhood memories for her to draw from in regards to her father. John will never be the father she wanted or thought she needed. But he did manage to keep her alive.

And he raised the person who would grow up to be the one person she wants to wake up to every morning. 

Credit where credit is due. No more, no less. 

There’s plenty of time and opportunity to make new memories with someone else. 

Someone else who is  _ also  _ walking home. 

“Hey, Billy!” Sam shouts and waves. “Give me the snake!” 

Dean lights up, grinning wide enough to cause his eyes to crinkle. He stops walking and holds his arms out. With his left hand, he points down. “I got your snake right here.” 

She walks up to him and skips the hug. She goes right for the kiss. Not a kiss.  _ The _ kiss. 

He melts against her, his body matching hers in its tenacity to be as pressed close together as possible in public. His hands on her shoulders, back, waist, and hips tease out a surge of emotions all at once. Excitement. Familiarity. Safety. Longing. 

And pride. 

“You caught me in my work uniform,” he says, gently and slowly lifting her off her feet for a moment. “Guess the cat’s outta the bag, huh?” 

Finals are over. She has two weeks off from her internship, and three months before she starts her senior year at Stanford. She’s going to enjoy every minute of free time she gets with the Palo Alto Public Library’s newest security guard.

“You’re serious,” she excitedly blurts out. “Did it stick?” 

He nods and shrugs. “Sure did. Officially out of the probationary period starting today.”

He loves the job. He loves her hair. He loves her. 

Sam stands on her toes and pulls him in for another kiss on the sidewalk before they head up the stairs. 

She tugs on the starched collar of his uniform. “Of all the gin joints in the world, he walks into mine.” 

Now, summer can start.

**Author's Note:**

> hello there! wow! it's been an age since I added to this verse. thank you to readers who have recently requested an addition. it was great hopping back in and seeing these two continue to grow. :) 
> 
> i hope you're all doing well and staying safe out there. i have moved in with my mom for the rest of shelter in place, which means 110% more Henry the Cat. XD 
> 
> i'm trying to take things day by day, sometimes hour by hour. escaping to these verses helps me a lot. i hope they can help you too. <3


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